


Six Hundred Years and Two Days

by deadOnOffbeat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Crying, F/F, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not A Fix-It, Past Relationship(s), Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post Bathhouse Scene, Smut, based on the witcher book plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25749448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadOnOffbeat/pseuds/deadOnOffbeat
Summary: It wasn’t odd that Tissaia de Vries had invited Rita to stay with her for the night in Gors Velen. It was far from the first time such a proposal had been made and accepted, but something was off about the former Rectoress of Aretuza tonight.Rita would be damned if she didn’t find out what it was, and if she managed to have a good time in the process, she won’t complain.
Relationships: Margarita Laux-Antille/Tissaia de Vries
Comments: 23
Kudos: 62





	Six Hundred Years and Two Days

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've published in more than five years and the first one in English, ever. I would tell you to go easy on me, but my mother ain't raised no coward, so bring on the hate! Or not.  
> Thanks to SmuttySnail on that note, for betaing the shit out of this - go read her life-changing tentacle porn! 
> 
> Also: Minor book spoilers, if you squint. If you only watched season 1 of the Netflix show and are unaware of what happens in the next plot-lines in the books involving Tissaia, the insinuations in this fic might be enough to be spoilers, even though nothing is explicitly stated. Treat with caution!

Margarita Laux-Antille had already been quite drunk in the bathhouse, and to no one’s surprise, she was even drunker now they were in the room they shared for the night in the Silver Heron. There was a noticeable slur in her voice as she spoke.

“Will you tell me to what I owe this pleasure now, beloved Arch-Mistress?”

Tissaia de Vries didn’t respond. She was busy arranging the glass and water carafe some servants had brought up and placed on the table all wrong and crooked while they had still been in the bath. When she was satisfied with the even distance between each one of the objects and between the objects and the edges of the chiffonier, she turned around to face her friend. Rita was sitting on the luxurious bed, her legs crossed, one foot lazily drawing fantasy shapes in the air. 

Once she finally seemed to have the former Rectoress attention, Rita repeated her question in franker words. She sounded almost sober now. “Why are we here?” 

“I believe it’s quite clear what you’re doing here,” Tissaia de Vries pointed out, glancing over to the bed Margarita had already accepted as her own. 

“There’s only one bed,” the blonde enchantress agreed with a small nod. 

Tissaia de Vries smiled, content that her friend’s wit hadn’t been entirely wiped away by the amount of wine she had drunk. 

“Then, if you so please, answer me what you’re doing here.”

“That, my dear friend, is none of your concern.”

Margarita huffed indignantly. “So I’m good enough to warm your bed tonight, but still not worth the effort to explain yourself to me.”

“Don’t be daft,” Tissaia reprimanded, falling back into her role as Rectoress’ like she did so often.  _ Old habits die hard _ . 

“Give me one good reason as to why your silence is preferable to the other options.”

“I don’t wish to spoil our evening together.”

There was a harshness in her tone. It reminded Rita of her time as a pupil under Rectoress de Vries’ austere wing. She scowled. Something was off about her friend tonight. She couldn’t put her finger on it, though. “Is something the matter? Something I should be aware of?”

The arch-mistress’ lips twitched as if she wanted to say something, but she must have thought better of it and shook her head. “No, nothing.”

“Lying to me now, are we?” Rita threw her hands up in a desperate motion and let out a mirthless laugh. “After all this time as your friend, why do you still treat me like a child?”

“You make it a habit to act like one.”

“You’re deflecting.”

Tissaia’s deep sigh filled the silence that ensued between them. “Do you trust me?”

Margarita Laux-Antilles hesitantly nodded. The hesitance did not originate from mistrust — she trusted her friend with her life — no, the hesitance came from the tangible undercurrent in the question. 

“Then don’t question my decision just this once.” She stepped closer, standing right in front of Margarita, towering over her sitting form. _ “Please _ .”

Rita looked up at her, quiet for a moment as she surveyed the softness in the other woman’s eyes. The drunken giddiness was slowly fading away.

“Tissaia,” she spoke calmly, eyebrows raised in faint humour. “You’re not becoming cynical and paranoid nowadays, are you?”

A small smile tugged at the corner’s of the older sorceress’ lips. “I wish such were the case, my dear Rita.” She began removing the laces of her dress one by one. 

There wasn’t anything particularly exhibitionist about Tissaia’s action, it was just a means to an end, yet there was nothing more erotic in Margarita’s eyes. “What makes you think I’m already over Lars?” she asked with a smirk that betrayed the humour of her question. 

“I know you well, beloved, you don’t  _ have _ to be over him.” She turned around, not waiting for an answer, wordlessly asking for help with the laces of her bodice she couldn’t reach herself. Normally, she would have used magic for the task. She was a powerful sorceress and it wasn’t like the task of magically undressing required exceptional abilities. She abstained from doing so, though, whenever she was intimate with Margarita, knowing too well the ritual of it doubled as foreplay for the other enchantress. 

Lace after lace slipped through the loops, revealing more and more of her glorious, pale skin before Rita’s eyes; the birthmark on her shoulder blades that she was so fond of tracing with her tongue. 

Just as she began planting kisses on the rigid spine she couldn’t wait to see curving under her ministrations, Tissaia turned around. “Not yet.”

Margarita furrowed her brows in confusion, but kept still as her friend stepped out of her skirt, gloriously naked now, not hiding behind towels like she did in the bathhouse. She was confident here, standing straight. Margarita stared shamelessly. When she began unbuttoning her own shirt as well, Tissaia lifted her hand and halted the movement with magic.

“No, let me,” she explained herself, releasing the enchantment. An unpleasant tingling followed the congealing spell in its wake. Rita massaged her fingers to get rid of it and looked up with a bit of aggravation. Couldn’t Tissaia have just told her to stop? 

The older enchantress smiled quietly as if she had read her thoughts — which she hadn’t, Rita would have noticed, she believed — and began folding the garments she had just taken off, placing them neatly on a stool so that they aligned perfectly.

“You want to go slow tonight?” Rita asked into her back.

As always, the arch-mistress chose acting over speaking. Turning back around, she stepped forward again, straddling Margarita’s lap with one graceful movement. They kissed then, softly, as if reacquainting themselves with the way their lips felt against one another, Tissaia’s hands soon finding Rita’s shoulders, caressing her slender neck, grasping her blonde curls. It was soft, but determined, and it made Rita glad she was sitting already. She gasped into the older enchantress’ mouth when their tongues collided without haste. Nothing Tissaia did was ever anything but calm and collected. She wouldn’t let herself go, even in the throes of pleasure. Margarita had long accepted this about her friend, although she had wished on more than one occasion that she could make her scream just once in the heat of the moment. 

Her blouse was open before Margarita even realised she was being undressed, and she looked down in surprise when she felt idle fingers brushing over her nipples, now free from the white, almost translucent fabric.

“No, keep kissing me,” Tissaia demanded, tipping her head up with a finger under her chin. 

Margarita was happy to comply. There was no living person who knew her body like the former Rectoress did. Tissaia knew exactly how rough she liked her nipples pulled, knew just how much pressure of her fingernails scratching along her ribcage was still pleasurable. 

It didn’t take long for Rita to start panting, her core burning with the need to be touched, but Tissaia took her sweet time, savouring the kisses, licking down her neck, inhaling the scent of camphor and spruce from the decoction they used in their bath. 

Margarita grasped the enchantress’ hair, pulling her closer, if that was even possible. She felt her former mentor smile against the skin of her neck and heard her tutting at the display of impatience. It was a game they were well acquainted with. Tissaia would tease Rita for a while, commenting on her eagerness with a playful haughtiness, in the process slowly starting to go mad with need herself. The breathless moans and needy whimpers had always had that effect on her.

When she guided Margarita down into a lying position, the enchantress was indeed whimpering quite incessantly. 

“Patience, dear,” Tissaia drawled seductively. Only Rita could make her feel seductive. The way the younger enchantress reacted to her gave her that kind of confidence. 

The former Rectoress had never been a particularly sexual woman. Naturally, over the course of the centuries she lived in this world, she had assembled more than a handful of experiences in that regard, but none came so natural to her as those she went through with Rita. She had often wondered if her friend was this responsive with every lover or if those sounds were reserved for her, just like Tissaia’s pleasure was reserved for the other woman, but she had never dared ask. 

Well, when else if not today, she thought to herself, and asked the question that had burned in her mind for centuries now. “Those whimpers you make, tell me, do you make them for every one of your lovers?”

“They are for you, just for you,” the enchantress panted out without even thinking. 

Tissaia de Vries frowned as she busied herself with carefully opening the buttons of the dark blue skirt Rita still wore. What Rita had just said had sounded like common parlance, like some sweet nothing you whispered into an insecure lover’s ear in the hopes that it gave them enough confidence to finally give you the pleasure you desired. It didn’t matter. Tissaia wiped any thought about it from her mind.

Margarita was naked soon after, writhing under Tissaia’s ministrations that still left untouched where she needed her most. “Please, Tissaia,” she pleaded with her, bucking her hips, mewling when the arch-mistress retreated even further. 

The old enchantress didn’t let herself be hurried, though. She drank in the sight below her; The blonde tresses falling over her flushed cleavage, a thin film of sweat glistening in the candlelight. The way Rita’s ribcage raised and lowered with each deep, shuddering breath she took. She traced a finger over the flushed, protruding clavicle, causing gooseflesh to spread over her skin. The woman was like an epiphany. Beautiful like a siren, and thankfully not as deadly. 

“Gods, Tissaia, please,” the enchantress below her pleaded again, bucking and writhing ferociously for friction.

“Patience,” the arch-mistress ordered softly, letting her eyes roam undisturbed by the incessant pleas. 

“What are you waiting for? A miracle? The sunrise?” 

“Hush.”

It was then that Margarita finally looked into Tissaia’s face — really looked. She noticed the deep sadness mixed with longing in the blue eyes, almost hidden in the shadows of the dark outside. Her full, rose-tinted mouth slightly agape, the older enchantress breathed deeply, completely immersed in reverie. Rita let her have this. She stilled. Something was off, she realised yet again. She tried to push the sense of dread away. 

“You make me feel alive, really alive,” Tissaia spoke flatly. “After six hundred years, that’s quite the task.”

“Six hundred?” Rita repeated, unsure if she heard correctly. Whenever the arch-mistress spoke about her age, ‘over five hundred’ was her go-to perimeter. “Since when?”

A small smile graced the older enchantress’ face. “Yesterday.”

“Happy birthday.”

The arch-mistress scoffed. “They once were happy three hundred years ago. There’s a reason no one who's still alive knows.” 

She winked in good humour, making Rita smile with her. 

“Love me now, will you?”

“I will,” Tissaia de Vries replied, but didn’t move. 

Rita took matters into her own hands then, grabbing the arch-mistress’ lean hips and pulling her down to her. The older enchantress squeaked in surprise, making Rita laugh at the unexpected sound. Tissaia shut her up with another kiss, wilder and less controlled, wet and warm. 

They grasped onto each other as if their lives depended on it and — this was new, Rita thought in the midst of her ever-building desire. The always so reserved arch-mistress grasped at her, pulling her closer, letting herself fall to her side so she had both hands to touch, claw, hold. Tissaia’s thigh came to rest between Rita’s legs and she began grinding herself with no sense of dignity. With Lars out of her life to take the edge off, she was even more desperate than usual. Rita’s fingers skimmed over the curly hair between her friend’s legs, making the sorceress gasp softly. It was the only invitation she needed to dip further down into the warm, welcoming wetness. 

She knew the motions that drove Tissaia insane. They had centuries to get to know each other’s weaknesses. Maybe bringing her to orgasm would make her more keen on returning the favour. Rita doubled her efforts, kissing, rubbing, until she felt the body hidden halfway under her own beginning to twitch and shudder.

The arch-mistress soon broke the kiss to gasp again, unable to keep the rhythm of their lips, instead pressing her forehead against Rita’s, remaining close as if she needed it. Her breathing was hot and shallow against Rita’s nose. It was always a sight to watch her come undone like that. Hips twitching, abdomen tensing, she was soon tumbling over the edge. Tissaia screwed her eyes shut, she always did, as if she had to hide something away from Rita with whom she shared more than with anyone else in the world. 

Once her body relaxed and breathing calmed, Tissaia turned them so she was on top again, her eyes burning with passion as she let them roam over Rita once more.

“No more staring,” Rita warned. “I want a piece of what you just had.”

“Don’t be lewd.”

“We’re having sex, Tissaia. Let me be lewd. Let me have my fun.”

And fun she had. 

She cursed when Tissaia finally touched her, three fingers plunging inside at once, showing her annoyance at Rita’s impatience, but Rita couldn’t care less about petty little pains. She loved when lovers were rough with her. A healthy dose of discomfort, she found, intensified the pleasure she experienced, and Tissaia had proved to be exceptionally good at keeping the balance. She met the fingers with her hips, urging Tissaia on to go deeper, faster.

“Greedy,” Tissaia whispered against her ear, making her growl. A fourth finger joined the first three. 

Rita’s eyes widened. “Holy Melitele,” she gasped out as Tissaia set a punishing pace. She laughed incredulously, head floating somewhere in the clouds. She was getting dizzy with arousal. She had taken Tissaia’s fist before, this was by far not too much per se, yet right now, it was bordering on over-stimulation and she gritted her teeth. She cried out when Tissaia’s thumb found her clit. 

A string of curses left her mouth before she could think better about it. She tensed in anticipation of a reprimand for the unladylike behaviour, and for a moment, it seemed like Tissaia would let it slide, but the harsh bite into the tendons of her neck that followed the treacherous silence felt a lot like a silent admonition. Rita bit her tongue to keep the curses inside this time as the dull, uncomfortable pain spread down her skin, mingling with the sensual overload. Her body was convulsing already, as if a demon had taken hold of her. The thumb on her clit moved fast and hard, the painfully intense sensation making her moan uncontrollably, but Tissaia didn’t seem to want to show mercy. Their eyes locked and she could almost see the swirls of chaos behind the arch-mistress’ blue irises. 

“Don’t stop,” she mouthed, unable to actually speak the words due to a very sudden lack of breath. Tissaia smiled sweetly and began circling her clit with more intent. Not for the first time, Rita marveled at the woman’s fine motor skills that made her able to keep up the movement of her fingers while moving the thumb of the same hand in a completely different rhythm. She didn’t have the capacity to contemplate it, though. Her arousal was climbing, steadily peaking. 

“Don’t stop, _ fuck _ , Tissa!”

Tissaia bit down on her neck again and this time, it pushed her right over the edge. Rita screamed, loud enough to wake at least half of Gors Velen. 

She laughed freely as she came down from her high, giddy, her entire body feeling like it just melted. “Did you think about putting a silencing charm up?”

“Of course not.”

The smirk on Tissaia’s face was uncharacteristically smug. She lay down beside Rita, removing strands of hair from her sweaty forehead, even now offended by the disarray they caused. For a moment, they kept quiet, enjoying the closeness, but Rita couldn’t bear it for long.

“Something will happen tomorrow, I know it will,” she admitted softly. “You were too lenient on me when I told you I didn’t want to go because of Lars. The Tissaia de Vries I know so well would have forced me to attend the banquet.”

Tissaia bowed her head in agreement. 

“Yet, you will not tell me.”

“I can’t have you intervene. Aretuza needs you. You cannot be involved.”

“In what?”

“I don’t know, Rita, trust me, I don’t.”

“What did the birds tell you?”

Tissaia only shook her head, eyes pleading. “Just love me again. Please, Rita.”

A question burned at the tip of her tongue, one that was hard to ask, so hard in fact that she could hardly bear to look Tissaia in the face while asking it. 

“Will this be the last time?”

The hurt washing over the arch-mistress’ face betrayed the answer even before she spoke. “Tomorrow will tell, Rita.”

“Don’t go to the banquet.”

“I must. As part of the Chapter.”

“An assassination?” she guessed, but Tissaia shook her head. 

Silence settled as the arch-mistress tried to speak and failed. Rita had never witnessed her lost for words and it was deeply unsettling.

“Six hundred years, my beloved Rita. Six hundred years and two days.”

“One day,” Rita corrected before understanding the implication of what Tissaia had said. “No,” she whispered.

“Don’t fret, Rita. All is taken care of.”

Tears sprung into her eyes. “This can’t be true.”

“Perhaps,” the arch-mistress soothed, wiping tears from the younger enchantress’ face. “Tomorrow will bring the answers. Tonight, love me. Please.”

And Rita did, with passion neither of them had ever experienced. What had been a means to an end before, now had purpose. She cried the entire time. She couldn’t stop the offending tears from flowing. Tissaia didn’t comment on them for once, wiped them away almost obsessively, even shushed her softly when her sobs became distracting, which made Rita feel safe and warm and she hated those treacherous feelings. 

Rita shook her head, willing the tears away because Tissaia deserved better than a crying mess to take care of. She tried to make up for it by being thorough in their lovemaking, by not stopping after Tissaia’s second or third orgasm. Her wrist was aching, but she didn’t want to change positions; the thought of removing herself from the strong hold alone causing her to sob uncontrollably. 

She tried to stifle the sound against Tissaia’s shoulders, but it only prompted the older sorceress to hold her there, a hand softly gliding over her curls, soothing her like a mother would a beloved child. This time, Rita couldn’t help being lulled in by the illusion of security. She gave up the fight, her fingers renewing their effort. 

She felt Tissaia gasping more than she heard her, the unsteady breaths making her chest tremble, and propped herself up to get a better angle, looking into her lover’s face as the orgasm washed over her, savouring the image, trying to sear it into her mind.

In the midst of her pleasure, Tissaia finally realised her earlier question, about whether Rita’s moans and whimpers were reserved just for her or not, didn’t mean anything at all. This, this was just for her and her entirely. 

Their embrace afterwards was tighter than usual. The exhaustion from the wine, sex, and tears made Rita feel heavy in the soft bed. Sleep came easy to her, even though she tried to fight it to savour the moment. 

Tissaia propped herself up on her elbow to look at the sleeping sorceress in the moonlight. Tracing the curves of her cheekbones, she whispered:

“No matter what happens tomorrow, my beloved Rita, you don’t bear any guilt. You are my legacy. There’s no one I’ve been prouder of.”


End file.
